Sing, Sing, Sing
by NonOfficialGACMember
Summary: This is a Sherlock/OC story. Bianca is a Vintage Swing Dancer/Actor from America. Sherlock is on a mission for Mycroft 6 months before his return to Baker St. She makes him realize he doesn't need walls... Rated T for Sherlock's smart mouth and experiments. May change to M later


**Hello my little Consulting Hedgehogs that are still reading my stories even though you hate my writing/updating consistency! Welcome to **_**Sing, Sing, Sing**_**! It is currently 2:28 am here in Texas, and I am still not tired! I am taking a break from ****Oh How The Mighty Fall**** for now, because-sadly- I got bored. So here I am starting ANOTHER new story for a fandom I haven't written for before. Sherlock. Yes, I know, I know, "Gred, you need to write the stories you have already started! This is completely rude to your readers!" I know, and I apologize. So, this story is a Sherlock/OC fic, where he goes on an important case in America to track down Moriarty's web. No, this story is not completely based in America, just the first 2-3 chapters. This starts a year and a half into the fall, six months before he goes back to 221B. Ok, So, He goes to America, and the case leads him to a vintage Swing Club in Brooklyn, where one of the performers catches his eye. She sees him looking and when her set is over, she greets him, introducing herself as Bianca. You just have to read the story to get the rest! **

BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED

Sherlock inwardly groaned. He could've sworn that the man sitting next to him on the aircraft was a relative of Anderson's. He felt numb from the amount of exposure to his idiocy. Sherlock rushed of the airplane and went straight to baggage claim, impatiently waiting for his luggage.

Ten minutes later, he was walking from the airport, suitcase, scarf, and coat in hand, flagging down a taxi. He could already tell he wasn't going to like Brooklyn. It was filled to the brim with smelly old diners and thick accents.

Once he had waved down a cab, loaded his things inside, and given the young cabbie his location, he pulled out his mobile.

_**I made it. –SH**_

A reply came almost instantly.

_**Good. Remember the club's name? –MH**_

Once more, Sherlock inwardly groaned and rolled his eyes.

_**Obviously, I am the one that found it, correct? –SH**_

No reply.

He sighed and put phone back into his coat pocket, letting his thoughts wander back to his life a year and a half ago. He would've been pestering Mrs. Hudson for a cup of tea and biscuits, despite her protests of 'landlady, not housekeeper', John would've been dozing in his chair after a long case, and Anderson would have been dumbing down the entire English population by talking, with the help of Donovan.

"_Just six more months of exile…_" He kept telling himself. Then he could go back home to 221B and homicide cases. Cases. Sherlock sighed at the thought of a thrilling serial killer case. He immediately shook the thought aside. He _couldn't_ think like that. It sounds ridiculous, but Sherlock missed being able to show off at crime scenes.

Suddenly, the cab came to stop. Sherlock emerged from his Mind Palace, looking up at the hotel rising into the sky. He exited the cab, paying the cabbie, and grabbed his suitcase, entering the lobby. He quickly checked in, going into the room. Putting away his luggage, Sherlock changed into a black suit, paired with his purple shirt. He messed up his curly black hair and stepped out of his room with the key and his mobile, going through the directions to the club a few miles away.

Hailing a taxi, Sherlock told the young man the address, and remembered the details about the man he was looking for.

_Tall, Brown expensively cut hair, businessman, no pets, wife, in an affair with the bartender at the club. _

His phone buzzed.

_**Remember our plan? –MH**_

This time, he didn't suppress the groan that escaped his lips. His brother could be-correction-_is_, insufferable. Of _course_ he remembered the plan! He obviously wasn't an idiot!

_**Yes, Mycroft, now will you stop pestering me and do **_**your**_** job?! –SH **_

Sherlock locked his phone and placed it into his pocket. He already knew that this was going to be a long trip.

BORED BORED

**Ok, so that was a little sample of this story! Review if you think I should continue!**


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